While I was walking between cabins with my bucket of cleaning products, there were many birds beside the water I could have stayed there for hours.
Stepping out of a cabin
with my cloths and mops,
trees open to embrace
an olive-green mill lake.
On a plinth stands a bird
so still I ask if it’s real,
white beak closed in hiatus.
Reflection merges
a swirl in the water
cormorant dry as shadow.
I step out of a cabin,
on the plinth, dusky wings tucked,
a heron sleek as a rose,
goslings forage on the opposite shore.
